poetry. something old. a study in extended metaphore.

Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.

—Jack Kerouac

Clear pins freckle her face,

Commemorating loss and love and hope,

Every ink spot is a new beginning.

A web of measurements entangles her,

Showing the lengths that affection will travel,

Marking distances from eyes and nose to mouth and heart.

Her hair blows blue in the breeze as tears overflow,

Bringing optimism to islands of despair,

Cleansing continents of hatred

Streaks of yellow, orange, pink, and green blush

Call her cheeks home,

Distorted around her previously curved forehead and chin

Millions of words are scrawled upon her eyebrows and earlobes,

Like wrinkles where they settle,

Keeping track of how long she has breathed life.

In her eyes are thousands of children,

Some wait at red lights while others stand still,

In front of doors they will never learn to open.

She is stationary moving only when her mother chooses to,

Watching the rotating screen of clouds and seasons and

Letting the sun kiss her face through a window